Page 106 of Savage Surrender

I get it, kid.

I follow the next access path between the dunes and onto another stretch of boardwalk under the trees. The shade feels good, and the packed boards are easier on my sore feet than sand. Palmettos and live oaks crowd both sides. Narrow golf-cart lanes cross the boardwalk, and I catch pieces of houses through the leaves.

I wanted to be alone. Now I’ve got it, and I keep thinking about the breakfast I left behind.

I’m really fucking hungry.

A few turns later, I hear music and voices, then smell coffee. The trees thin at the far edge of the marina village. I recognize the brick paths, the grocery store, and the restaurant patio where a gull is stalking a man’s meal from the railing.

People are eating breakfast beneath striped umbrellas. A woman pushes a stroller with one hand and holds her partner’s fingers with the other. Two girls in bathing suits share something covered in powdered sugar while they sit on the edge of a fountain. An older couple pedals past on matching bicycles, moving slowly enough to argue about where they parked without either of them losing balance.

God. I want to be pissed off about something as mundane as parking.

The bakery door opens, and warm sugar and cinnamon hit me from across the path. My stomach cramps and I press a hand against it. I scold myself for leaving without money. Being angry is one thing. Being stupid is another.

Freddie would be horrified. I want him here with a bakery bag in each hand and that worried line between his eyebrows he gets when my stomach growls. The door swings shut, and most of the cinnamon goes with it. I keep walking.

Cold air blasts through the open door of a souvenir shop beside the pharmacy. I step inside and pretend for a minute that I’m here to shop.

Racks of bright clothes crowd the front room. Shells and postcards fill shallow baskets near the register, and a display of tiny glass dolphins turns slowly beneath the ceiling vent. I trail my fingers over a rack of soft T-shirts without checking the sizes. I can’t buy one, and I don’t really want a shirt with a cartoon crab pinching the words Wrecker’s Point has me by the tits precariously close to where my nipples would be.

I move deeper into the shop.

Then I smell it.

Alpha, and not one of mine.

It’s faint under sunscreen, coffee, fried food, and salt. Stale cigar smoke. Worn leather. A rough alpha scent that makes me want to breathe through my mouth. My shoulders pull in. My hands go cold while the rest of me burns hotter.

The shop fades into the background.

Rotor blades pound overhead. A strap bites into my wrists. Three older alphas pack the helicopter with their big bodies, stale cigars, and scents that make the back of my throat itch. They talk about golf, an overseas hunting trip, and stock portfolios while I try not to think about their sons waiting at the other end. I close my eyes and count.

I blink until the glass dolphins stop blurring in front of me.

I look into the long mirror behind it.

A man stands outside the shop window, watching me. He’s broad enough to fill half the window, with gray in his beard and a face cooked by the sun.

One of the Havershams. Not anyone I was expecting to see.

His eyes stay on mine in the mirror.

My hand slips into my back pocket and closes around the prepaid phone. I keep my eyes on a row of postcards while I wake the screen. There are a bunch of missed calls but I didn’t feel it vibrate. Oh god, I hope Freddie and Owen aren’t hurt.

Havershams in the village.

The message hangs. I have no bars.

I lift my head and check the mirror again. The man’s already headed for the door. A second waits beside a dark golf cart at the edge of the brick path, heavier through the chest and stomach, with a faded hunting cap pulled low. The third stands near the path leading back into the trees.

The bell above the front door rings.

“Bianca.”

He says my name like we’re friends. A woman comparing beach hats glances at him, then at me, and goes back to turning the display. He keeps his distance. Too many people. Too much glass.

I step around the end of a clothing rack. He takes his time following me.